Re-write
by D.Genesis
Summary: Nothing good befalls wizards that mess with time and yet when orphan Harrison Prescott begins remembering things he shouldn't, he inadvertently sets off a chain reaction that may do just that. (Timetravel)
1. Gift from the future

**Re-write**

**Warnings: Cross posted on AO3 for anything that may exceed the M rating on FF. net.  
**AU**. **Time travel. Yes. _Another one._ Language. Violence. Torture. Adult situations. Suggestive dialogue. **Disturbing** adult content and themes. **Grey/intelligent-Harry. **Other characters will be **OOC** as well. Set to be an epic story spanning the boys' entire Hogwarts years and beyond.** Un'beta'd!**  
_**I have warned you**_. If you are uncomfortable with **any** of this, then turn back now.  
**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fanfiction, written because I can't stop myself one an idea strikes. Hopefully you'll like it.  
**Main pairings: **_**None**_ – I _**may **__make this _**slash **_eventually_ but will put this to vote when the boys are in their sixth and seventh year, so you still have plenty of time to consider as I'm willing to write it either way and it won't alter much by way of content regardless. _(Tom will remain possessive and protective of Harry either way.)_**  
Implied:** Canon pairings

My aim is an epic story based around the boy's odd friendship. (Really short chapters)

* * *

-**Re-write**-

**1**

**Gift from the future**

-x&x-

* * *

_**Wool's Orphanage, July 1935**_

Harrison Prescott was a particularly... _gifted_ individual.

He was blessed with a natural, almost clumsy charm. He was adored by complete strangers for his sweet, angelic appearance and by the caregivers of the orphanage where he dwelled—although, he _never_ abused this power—for his softly spoken if insightful views as to the world. It helped he was rather intelligent. But most of all, he was gifted with the ability to... _do_ things. Things no one else _could_.

But for all of Harry's gifts he had no friends.

The other children were jealous of him. They saw how on adoption day, he was usually one of the first picked out by potential parents—rare as it was, considering England was in an economic slump, still recovering from the war—to be taken. He never left, of course, but not by any fault of his own. He imagined Riddle was the cause of _that_.

Then again, he supposed if their situations were reversed he'd also have difficulties in letting the only person who didn't outright dislike him to leave and forget all about him.

If he knew anything about the older boy, it was that Riddle _hated_ the idea of being forgotten. Loathed to believe that he could somehow fade away into obscurity and half-remembered recollections where he'd be referred to as 'That boy. You know, the troubled one.' He supposed it was no more than any orphan's greatest fear. Riddle was just a little more extreme than most when it came to expressing that sentiment.

No, Harry wasn't stupid. He saw Riddle's actions for what they were. Beyond exacting revenge for the years he was powerless to lift a finger to stop it—because yes, despite the way things were now, at one point both Riddle and he found themselves in the very same boat of being the favourite target for bullies—and more than acting on his own insatiable cruelty, when it was justified; it was a means of being _memorable_.

Crude yet effective.

One was _never_ truly gone as long as they were remembered and no one ever forgot their childhood bully. Never forgot the name of the boy that made them cry.

And Riddle made _all_ the children cry at one point or another. Or did other things to them which made them... odd. Harry, himself being the only real exception to this rule and he presumed this was just because he hadn't done anything to truly upset the older boy, keeping to himself most of the time.

Of course this would all change.

"Prescott."

Harry glanced up, squinted. His sight wasn't the best and assumed this was due to his reading at night in his very poorly lit room. Of course, Riddle did much the same thing and the younger of the pair had noticed the other's sight didn't seem impaired in the least. Still, Harry could identify the tall, pale figure of the other boy easily enough, if not his voice.

"Yes, Riddle?"

"Mrs. Cole sent me to retrieve you," the other informed him, arms crossed solemnly over his chest. It was no wonder many of the other children didn't like him, he was so very adult-like. Condescending. But to Harry he was simply 'Riddle' and that was all he needed for classification purposes.

Closing a book he'd been reading—an outdated encyclopaedia on plants—Harry rose from the ground, dusted the excess dirt and grass and twigs from his trousers, then followed behind the older boy.

He didn't bother to ask why he'd been summoned; Riddle would have told him the reasons if he knew them or _wanted_ to tell him. Asking would only result in a caustic remark from the older or the opening of their usual bartering sessions in which he'd inevitably lose something that Riddle wanted. He supposed he should be satisfied that the other boy _didn't_ outright demand anything from him.

He wasn't deluded enough to believe the times he stood up for Riddle when they were both younger would mean anything to the other. He'd seen Riddle's reactions to others' offers of friendship. They weren't welcomed.

Still, why was he being called to Mrs. Cole's office? He hadn't done anything... Not that this stopped him from getting in trouble for things he hadn't done before. He hadn't heard a peep out of Smith and his boys in a week or so... and they were usually the culprits to frame him. However, he _had_ noticed just how jumpy Smith had been around Riddle so, maybe he was too preoccupied with watching out for himself?

The stares and whispers from the other children playing around them went largely ignored as Harry climbed the concrete stair of the grim, near prison-like institution that served as his place of occupancy. 'Home' seemed too personal a term to be applied.

The inside of the building was like an icebox, despite being the middle of summer and he shivered.

"Where'd you get that book from?"

Harry barely stopped himself from flinching. Still, perhaps his whitened knuckles gave something away as Riddle's cursory, backward glance at him seemed maliciously amused.

To lie or not to lie?

"Sarah," he replied.

"The girl that's utterly smitten with you at the library?"

Again, he nearly flinched. Smitten seemed hardly fair... Sarah was just terribly lonely. He tried to ignore the longer, more probing stare from the other's unusual dark eyes. Feeling uncomfortable, he shrugged.

"She's just lonely..."

Riddle's expression was flat, his eyes sharp, burning in something that seemed almost like warning. The older boy hummed, noncommittal. That more than anything seemed the most threatening.

Harry held himself tall despite the way his skin was starting to crawl in unease.

"She doesn't have many friends," he tried to justify.

Why was he even bothering? Honestly?

"I find her exceptionally friendly for someone who's merely wishing for simple companionship," Riddle volleyed, sharply. "One might consider her advances rather... presumptuous of her; frightfully _forward_ and she is older than you. Perhaps you enjoyed being pursued in this manner?"

How did Riddle know tha—? Oh right, he knew practically everything. He was insanely observant for a mere eight year-old. Helped the boy had eidetic memory.

"Sarah isn't being... pre—_forward_," Harry grumbled, defensive.

"Oh?" Riddle murmured silkily, smile rapier sharp. "So her advances are welcomed by you? And here I thought you had more sense than the rest of the idiots we live with..."

That surprisingly hurt.

Tom wasn't exactly the easiest person to please and the fact the Prescott was held in a semi-decent regard by the boy was something Harry kind of prided himself in. No one else at the orphanage could claim such and now, because of a statement he was tossed in with the rest...

"Sarah's just a friend," he snapped, upset. "Aren't we a little young to be thinking about girls anyway?" he tacked on as the older boy's face darkened.

Riddle knocked on Mrs. Cole's door without waiting for Harry's reply—_when had they reached it?_—then stepped back. The door opened immediately and a skinny, sharp-featured woman looked down upon them.

She was nervous. Something Harry noted always happened whenever Riddle was around. It made him frown. Riddle was accused of many things but none of it could be proven and while he himself had witnessed some of the older boy's acts of violence, it was usually in retaliation. Riddle never did something without purpose. He _was_ incredibly cruel but not without motive.

"Ah boys," she said and her smile twitched, like Stubb's rabbit's nose; before Tom gutted it and strung it from the rafters, lifeless head through a noose of old, brown twine. "Thank-you for getting Harry for me, Tom. You may go." Stepping aside, she held the door open. "Harry, if you'll please step inside?"

"Is he in trouble, Mrs. Cole?" Riddle asked, unmoving from the door. The matron's face tightened.

"No, Tom," she assured, in a raspy, placating tone. One reserved for Riddle alone. "Harry's not in any trouble. Go on, now."

She could never sound stern when it came to Tom.

At least, not anymore.

"Then why has he been called to your office?" the older boy pressed. "If he's not in trouble?"

Expression turning more anxious, Mrs. Cole replied. "There are just some... issues we need to discuss." She paused, then added, tone almost a plea. "Nothing major. He'll be out... in a short while. Don't you worry."

Narrowed smoky eyes fixed on her before Riddle nodded. Apparently appeased. Still, he didn't move.

"I'll wait out here."

Harry eyed Riddle warily. What did he want? They weren't close to friends by any stretch of the imagination. "You don't have to," he said.

Riddle smiled. It wasn't particularly pleasant. "I insist."

Harry noticed Mrs. Cole looked suitably frightened as she closed the door behind them. The lock clicking into place he found to be a bit excessive, but if it offered her peace of mind then he supposed he was all for it. Her hand jerked upward, as though aborting the need to cross herself.

That was just plain silly. Riddle was hardly a demon. Slightly demonic in nature perhaps but still, not a demon.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Cole?" he queried when she didn't start speaking straight away. Her head jerked up and she gave a shaky nod.

"Riddle," she murmured, shooting looks at the door, almost as if she expected the knob to lunge for her nose. "He has never... hurt you, has he?" The look she settled on him then was one of concern.

He shook his head. "No," he replied. "He's never done anything to me. If he wants something from me we'll barter over it, one exchange for another." Not always of equal value but she didn't need to know that. "Then again, I've never done anything to him, so that could be why."

Mrs. Cole looked perplexed but intrigued. "What do you mean, Harry?"

"Well," he began slowly. It wasn't like he wanted to confirm any assumptions, after all. "The other children aren't very... nice, see? They don't do much to Riddle" _or me_ "now but, before they could be really mean to him." _Us_.

Actually he wasn't sure why they had taken to leaving him be now. For the most part. Excluding Smith's little group, of course. Although, he had his assumptions.

"Are you saying, what he's done is in retaliation?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm saying that for everything _they've_ done, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd want to," he murmured, honestly.

"Harry," she spoke gently, she'd always had a soft spot for him. "Just because someone else does something first, doesn't make it right."

"Nor does allowing them to continue," he returned, promptly. "Or turning a blind eye to the situation based on incorrect assumptions."

The woman's eyes lit in something close to understanding. Her face whitened and she nodded to herself and then stepped around her modest and cell-like office—like everything else in the orphanage, it had clearly seen better days—pulled out a parcel from within her buckled cabinet. She pressed it toward him, over her paper strewn desk.

"Happy birthday, Harry," she said, lowly, eyes once more on the door behind him.

Vibrant green eyes took in the small parcel within his grasp. He blinked. It wasn't often the orphanage could afford to give presents. Certainly not for something like birthdays. It singled children out and made them targets to the other ones, it was one of the reasons he was so disliked.

He shifted, pleased and troubled at once.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cole," he murmured, glad he'd been pulled aside for this. There had to be some way he could hide he'd received something from her... Despite the gift's small size it would still be noticeable beneath his second-hand sweater.

The woman nodded, smiled thinly. "These items were found with you when you were discovered on the doorstep," she informed him and his eyes snapped back to the newspaper wrapped bundle. These had been his? He felt an overwhelming sense of... _something_ flood him but the emotion eluded his comprehension and he thought no more on it. _This_ was part of his history... A link to his parents and the life he'd had before the orphanage.

But, did he truly want to know?

Presumably his parents hadn't wanted him or been able to afford his upkeep; why else abandon him on the steps of an orphanage?

Oh, he knew possible reasons as to why that may have been the case, none of them pleasant by any means. Regardless, was he truly willing to open that can of worms? For the sake of curiosity? Closure?

With unsteady fingers, he fumbled. Hands trembling with anticipation and emotion he very gingerly unwrapped his gift. Newspaper crinkled between his long slender fingers, stained them black with ink.

He wasn't sure what, entirely, he was to expect.

What he found within the paper was a beautifully embroidered pouch of dark, emerald green satin—the detailing alone told him how expensive it must have been—an old antique looking skeleton key and a delicate, intricately designed ball of glass, its insides a swirling crimson mist.

* * *

So, to continue or not? I'm not going to bother working on it when I could be working on something else. BTW, I removed chapter 3 and 4 from Game of Thrones to be rewritten after some helpful advice, however I've reached a snag.

I'm working on "Descent": As Virgil claimed, the descent into Hell is easy; especially when dealing with his troubled student: the Potter heir, a recalcitrant little snot with a penchant for spewing insults and an extreme hatred of all things female. TR/HP

Interested? All reviews, concrit and comments are welcomed! Thanks for reading to the bottom of my chapter :)


	2. From orphan to wizard?

You guys made me **so** happy. So it's looks like I'll be continuing my story, for another chapter at least. Since I'm on a roll I was able to knock this out a lot sooner than I had expected (or perhaps because I had more time on my hands?) Whatever. Hopefully, you enjoy it. As explained in the warnings, it's due to be an epic story and thus will be quite slow to build up the boy's characters, friendship and whatnot. I want to make them as realistic as possible which means despite Tom being protective of Harry, he won't be nice about it. Who like's a nice Tom? Really?

Also, new poll up. Please check and have your say.

* * *

**2**

**From orphan to... **_**wizard**_**?**

-x&x-

* * *

Leaving Mrs. Cole's office, Harry wasn't surprised to find Riddle out in the hall still waiting as promised. Or threatened. Really, both words when in relation to the other were essentially synonymous.

"What did Mrs. Cole want?" Riddle was quick to enquire, then spotted the items Harry wasn't able to hide. "Give me a look."

He snatched the bag from Harry's small hand; the younger boy didn't stand a chance.

Riddle moved quickly, like a striking serpent; far too fast for him to do anything more than gape in startled indignation at the abrupt loss, his gift already in the other's hand.

Normally he wouldn't put up much of a fuss—what could he do against Riddle anyway?—but this time was different: those three items were all that remained of his past, his parents presumably or family. He felt sickness clench and unclench in his stomach and the icy touch of dread trailed fingers up and down his spine as the older boy withdrew the frail glass ball from within the velvet pouch, handled it without care.

If Riddle dropped it...

"Be careful with that!" he demanded, alarmed, reaching for the orb. The other's expression darkened.

"Why should I?" Riddle challenged.

Harry swallowed, panicky and nauseous, he felt horribly cold. His eyes flickered from the other boy's tall form to the glass held aloft in his hand, where swirls of scarlet danced within. He'd never seen anything like it before and if it was broken... he doubted he'd ever find another.

"Please, Tom."

An odd expression flittered across the older boy's features; like a shadow stealing across the moon. Harry had never seen it on him before. The blood froze in his veins, had he inadvertently angered Riddle further?

His breathing quickened in sync with his fluttering heart.

"What is this?" Riddle questioned softly, after a pause, the orb held aloft but gaze still adhered to the younger's face. "Certainly not a mere child's toy, nor an ornament: it feels _different._ You were given this for your birthday... _Why_?"

Harry didn't bother to wonder at the fact that Riddle even knew when his birthday was.

He held out trembling, still ink-stained digits.

"I..." he paused, swallowed. "Those were left with me on the doorstep when I was abandoned," he explained, haltingly. "Please give it back—"

"Why?"

Now Riddle was just toying with him.

Beneath the fear of loss, Harry felt a surge of anger towards the older boy.

"You might break—"

There was a sudden sharp _CRACK_ and Riddle let out a small sound of pain, a twisted scowl fitted upon his features as he shook the hand still holding the glass ball.

A word distinctly adult in nature snarled from the boy's thin pale pink lips.

Red abruptly spilled from the orb in great undulating wisps, swiftly filled the narrow, concrete and stone hallways like a noxious, sentient miasma. It very quickly thickened, coloured everything in sight a stunning, vicious scarlet.

A startled gasp escaped Harry's lips, he jumped back from the mist alarmed.

The mist followed. Swirling smoky tentacles snaked across the ground, toward him then up, _up_ into his face as he struggled to fight it off.

He turned to run, froze, terrified, tried to fight through his fear as the mist-like stuff smothered him, forced its way inside his nasal passage, mouth and airways. He coughed, inhaled yet more of the retched red not-quite-smoke despite his desperate attempts to avoid it then fell forward, head spinning as more and more of the not-smoke-stuff drifted up his nose.

He heard ringing and Riddle speaking; urgent and quiet, directly into his ear. Felt something digging into his shoulders painfully, around his chest and into his hip.

Then deathly silence took over and everything faded to black.

**-x&x-**

When Harry woke he expected blinding white. He was wrong. Instead, he got dull and ugly grey.

Where...? Oh, right. He was in his bedroom in the orphanage. Where else was he expecting to wake up? Where else had he woken for the last five odd years? Well, he supposed it was closer to a little over six years now, considering he was eight that day.

Something tickled at the back of his mind, whispering a different answer but he paid it little attention. Why did he feel so... groggy?

It took him a moment before he could recall what he'd been doing before taking a nap in the... middle of the afternoon, judging by the sickly light filtering in through his narrow bedroom window. Once he did, he jerked upwards, squinting towards the small bedside drawer and was once again surprised. Atop it sat his pouch, key and a now clear glass bal—

_Remembrall..._

Right. A remembra—what?

"A remembrall," he muttered, picking the item in question up, its function readily springing to mind as if summoned like a genie: _A glass ball that contains smoke which turns red if it's owner forgets something..._

On some level, he knew that this sudden knowledge should worry him. That he should be concerned by what it all meant but found that, on some level he'd _already_ known and simply forgotten... But how on earth had he forgotten that? Or more to the point, how had he even known what it was to begin with if he'd been at Wool's orphanage since he was little more than a year old?

Maybe it wasn't a memory but a dream? Some crazy dream... He _had_ been sleeping before this knowledge came to him, so it wasn't too implausible.

Something niggled at the back of his mind; warned him he was forgetting something infinitely more important—

"_Assess the situation,"_ a familiar yet _un_familiar masculine voice echoed through his mind like a long memorised hymn. The deep richness of it caused a sharp pang of nostalgia and the remembrance of... _loss_._ "Of your person and your environment..."_

The pain was promptly followed by fright.

Although part of himself trusted that voice another part of him _didn't_. Even at eight he knew that hearing voices in his head was abnormal. Yet, that same piece of him—the part that knew what a remembrall was—urged him to follow the unknown voice's advice; that it had never led him wrong before.

But if it was only another dream-fragment... how was he to know whether the voice was trust worthy or not?

"You aren't going to tell Mrs. Cole what happened."

_Riddle_.

Harry stiffened, turned, narrowed his eyes on the other boy seated on the lone rickety chair on the far side of the room. He was regarded just as narrowly in return.

"She'll find out on her own," Harry refuted, concluding Riddle must have dragged him back to his room on his own. He'd have been in the hideous box of a room that served as the infirmary otherwise. Harry didn't even want to consider how she'd failed to hear their little... _scuffle_ in the hall. "She's quite sharp."

_Inconveniently sharp..._ He paused at the thread of... memory? Thought? _Dream? _That was, yet _wasn't_ his own.

Riddle looked angry, his expression black. "She can't prove a thing. So you won't say nothing. _Or else_..."

They continued to stare at each other; Riddle in warning and himself in contemplation. The threat was very real, Harry acknowledged it and yet wasn't _as_ afraid of the older boy at all for the first time since he'd come to know him. On some level, he knew exactly how dangerous the boy was—or could be—but found himself only extremely wary.

"You said that ball was a remember all..." the older broke the silence.

"Remembrall."

Riddle glared at the correction, straightened up. "How do you know what it is? You must have made the name up; I've never heard of one before."

_That admission must have hurt._

Again Harry blinked at the wayward thought, he opened his mouth, 'I don't know,' ready to fall from his lips. "It's a magical device," came out instead.

He clamped his mouth shut, startled, nose scrunched in confusion.

Was this another dream-thing? It must be but then why—

"_Magic_?" Riddle murmured, but not in disbelief or scorn as the younger of the pair expected. His visage had taken on an almost hungry expression that disturbed Harry even more and the boy stood, prowled closer. "Is that what that red smoke was? Magic? What do you know about magic?"

Harry shook his head. He _didn't_ know anything about magic besides his own strange powers and yet that _wasn't_ true. He knew it wasn't but couldn't decide what was and wasn't real anymore. Slivers of dreams?—_Memories_?—danced across his mind in a myriad of fantastical sensations that teased all of his senses...

_Wind stinging his face, ripping at his clothing as he flew... that tingling warmth he'd long associated with his strange 'gift' as he coaxed a flower into full bloom... the searing, blood boiling, nerve igniting sensation of being held under the pain inflicting curse... A castle—his home—in utter ruins, the grounds around it strewn with mangled bodies and rivers of blood... the scent of burning hair and flesh... a beautiful, dirty, tear-streaked face telling him_—

He jerked, covered his mouth as his stomach roiled, tried to expel the little he'd consumed for lunch.

That _couldn't_ be real and yet, he knew... The strange, unbidden loss he felt convinced him of this truth and he felt hollow, confused and so very _guilty_. But for what? What had he to be guilty for? He'd never been to a castle before... was that, why he was at the orphanage? Because his parents had died in this... this massacre? Were these memories from his first year of life?

But... they _couldn't_ be... Supposedly a child's memory only truly began around the age of three and he barely recalled anything from his time as a four year old...

'I don't know,' he wanted to say and again, instead supplied; "It exists."

And he _almost_ didn't want it to but more than that, he wished he could regain control of his own motor functions.

Riddle's eyes burned, turning them a molten silver instead of the usual bizarre smoky-slate-indigo. He reminded Harry of a prowling wolf; half mad with starvation and something infinitely more feral. "_Prove it_."

"Why should I?" Harry shot back in challenge, half surprised at his own audacity, the other half annoyed with himself for that surprise. He prayed Riddle wouldn't pick up on his use of words but knew better. He added; "You seem to know something of it. Why don't _you_, show _me_?"

What was wrong with him?!

No one challenged Riddle.

Maybe he was... possessed? That actually made sense and it explained the... memories and random idle thoughts that were almost his own but not quite.

He needed time to _think_.

"I suppose I could show you what I know," Riddle decided quietly, stepped closer again until his legs brushed against the bed Harry was seated in. He leaned in and Harry didn't like the glint in the older boy's eye. "But I should warn you; you won't like it."

A slim, cool hand seized Harry's wrist, tightened like a vice—_Ow!_

His body gave a violent jolt, teeth sank into his bottom lip, a scream on the cusp of bursting from his lips but was held back with a steadfast determination.

He would _not_ scream for Riddle; he _refused_ despite the torrent of liquid fire erupting through every nerve ending in his hand, that filled his mind with an agonised mantra he couldn't quite understand. His eyes stung and his chest heaved in rapid, tiny breaths. He would not scream... He would not—_CRACK_

_SNAP, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, POP_.

It felt like all the bones in his hand had been broken, splinted, were twisting around each other in a grotesque rendition of a tango. His head jerked backwards, pressed into the rough, worn cover of his pillow, brushed against his too hot cheek, scratched at it, grazed his tender skin.

Blood burst upon his tongue; metallic and salty. A tear escaped the corner of his eye.

The pain ceased abruptly.

A hiss tried to ease its way out, found itself constricted, emerged instead as a relieved gasp. He struggled back into a sitting position on unsteady limbs, licked at his bloodied bottom lip. It stung.

"You didn't scream," mused Riddle, leaning slightly over him, his hand still clutched at Harry's wrist. He seemed... disappointed.

"You expected me to?"

Was that his voice? He sounded winded.

"Yes."

A blunt fingernail dragged across the delicate inner part of his wrist. He forced himself not to flinch at the contact, failed when he met that burning gaze.

"Satisfied?" The older boy prompted, silkily. "Or, perhaps, another demonstration is in order?"

Without breaking eye-contact, Harry lifted his free hand and the key he'd received earlier soared into it, hovered several inches above his palm, pirouetted slowly: as graceful as any ballerina.

Riddle watched for several moments, that same hungry look about his eyes.

"I knew it," he hissed in a deranged satisfaction. His gaze, when it met Harry's, revealed the unbridled pride held for a treasured pet that had performed well. It made his stomach twist in knots. "I knew you were different than the others.

"What else can you do?"

Harry shrugged, uncomfortable, drew his hand back to himself, cradled it. The phantom impression of pain lingering still. Reluctance gnawed at him as he slipped the key inside his pocket. "Different things."

The pressure around his wrist grew, despite being no longer captive. He exhaled shakily at the threat.

"I heal faster than normal people..." he began quiet, resentful, listing off the more obvious skills he possessed; the one's more likely to have been noticed by others. "Animals too, if the injuries aren't serious—"

"Can you cause pain?"

Harry blinked, shook his head. "No," he replied, honestly.

Riddle said nothing, just kept watching him, curious, that wild pleasure now gone from his face. Something about it made him think that the older boy had already known the answer before he asked. Now for the big one.

"I can... control time. Sort of."

"How?" Riddle demanded, straightened where he stood.

"I can slow a fall if I'm pushed... make flowers bloom... or return to a bud."

Riddle studied him carefully. "You can't manipulate time to do anything else? Like say, change seasons? Speed entire days up? Make them slow down?"

"It's too hard."

Which wasn't lying. He'd tried making an entire tree flower and passed out through sheer exhaustion. He'd gotten a week long fever after that and not attempted it again for fear of a repeat performance.

"Hmmm..."

Harry tilted his head, curious himself. "What can you do?"

Riddle smiled enigmatically. "_Different things_."

The younger boy frowned at him. "That isn't fair."

"Life often isn't," informed the bigger boy, laconic. He moved away from the bed, toward the door where he paused, turned his head to stare Harry down. "Remember what I said: I don't often give warnings more than once."

Tugging the door open, he slipped outside and snapped it shut behind him with a rusty sort of _squeak_.

A breath Harry hadn't been aware he was holding escaped him in a rush and his tense shoulders unknotted themselves.

That was close. He didn't feel particularly excited with the prospect of how Riddle was going to react when he realised that Harry hadn't been exactly forthcoming with his information but he didn't trust the older boy, even if Riddle wasn't as antagonistic toward him as Smith and his lot.

The rustle of cloth met his ears followed by a slow dragging sound, he turned worried eyes on the small, triangular head of his companion.

"_**It's all clear**__,_" he hissed to his friend.

A small grass snake slithered out from between the thin mattress that made up Harry's bed, where it had taken refuge to hide from Riddle.

"_**Good**_," it responded.


End file.
